Living With Ghosts

by Kari Sperring

  Kenan Orcandros looked up from the correspondence he had been going over with Iareth Yscoithi. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Do remain.” His tone was not quite pleasant. “I’m sure your commanding officer will want to be sure we do not plot treachery under your roof, whatever our various reputations. You, too, Iareth kai-reth .” Iareth had risen; she nodded and stepped back to stand at a window.

  Joyain said nothing. Kenan, it seemed, was still young enough to enjoy rudeness. If Kenan wanted to be insulting—Joyain was pretty sure that the subject of the insult was less himself, than it was his country and the Tarnaroqui delegation—then that was none of Joyain’s business. His commanding officer was unlikely to care, and it was up to the Tarnaroqui how they responded. Schooling his face to neutrality, he retired to the door and stood with his back to it.

  At least it was dry in here. He had never known rain like it: there was talk in the barracks of sandbagging the old quay, and the floating dock was all but unusable.

  Ambassador Sigeris had finished making a long—and incomprehensible—speech in Tarnaroqui. Now he bowed, and added in Merafien, “Which is to say, we of Tarnaroq are honored to make the acquaintance of Lunedith’s heir.” It seemed he, too, chose to ignore Kenan’s attempt at insult.

  Kenan had not bothered to rise. To Sigeris’ speech, he responded only with a curt nod. Sigeris looked momentarily askance, then, recovering himself, asked, “How do you find Merafi?”

  “Wet,” said Kenan.

  There was a pause. The visitors had not been invited to sit. Sigeris stood with his hands behind him, watching Kenan. Radewund was studying his cuffs. To Joyain’s experienced eye, he looked hungover. The woman Quenfrida had wandered over to the mantel, and was examining a china figure. Without turning, she said “Would that be slightly, adequately, quite, or very?”

  “What?” asked Kenan.

  “Wet.”

  There was another pause. Then Kenan said, “Some-what. If I may enlarge the parameters.”

  “Naturally. That’s one of rank’s privileges.” Quenfrida’s voice was silken: although he could not see her face, Joyain was willing to swear that she was smiling.

  “So it is,” Kenan said lazily. “I’d rather forgotten.”

  “Ah,” said Quenfrida. “Forgetfulness.”

  “Quite. I am, in addition, remiss. I begin to note it.” Kenan made a small bow to Sigeris. “Perhaps Your Graces would care to sit and take refreshments with me?”

  Sigeris was watching Quenfrida: his expression was curiously thoughtful. As she turned to look at him, it turned into a smile. To Kenan, he said, “That would be welcome.”

  “So.” Kenan gestured to the assortment of chairs.

  “It’s morning. They drink chocolate here at this hour, I think.” He glanced at Joyain as he spoke. The latter made a hasty bow. “At home in Lunedith, we drink ale.”

  So did Joyain, as a rule. Chocolate was for the rich. Iareth left the room; he heard her relaying the order to a footman before returning and resuming her place. The Tarnaroqui delegation seated themselves, and the conversation took a friendlier turn. Kenan had been taken to a performance at the Gran’ Théâtre the night before. He had not, it seemed, enjoyed it. (Tafarin Morwenedd had, and the tavern afterward even more so. Joyain’s own state of health still bore slight witness to that.) Radewund recommended a different theater company. Sigeris listened. Quenfrida gazed absently into her cup. So far it seemed that from this encounter, at least, the hottest news Joyain would have for Amalie was that there wouldn’t be much of a market in Lunedith for either chocolate or theater props. “But,” Quenfrida said, looking up, “you will have many demands on your time, I’m sure. Your Highness is the latest novelty. I’m sure you’ll be invited everywhere.”

  “I do not care for frivolity.” Kenan spoke in the tone of a septuagenarian. Joyain lowered his gaze.

  “Ah, but one finds some splendid hospitality in Merafi,” Radewund said.

  “And gains the chance to be on good terms with a number of influential people.” Quenfrida picked up an invitation card from the table. “The salon of Miraude d’Iscoigne l’Aborderie. She’s the First Councillor’s sister-in-law, you know, and very charming. You never know what you’ll discover at her salons or whom you’ll meet. You should go.”

  “Perhaps I will.” Kenan sounded bored, but he reached for the card. “My Iareth kai-reth, do you know of this Miraude de Iscoigne? From her name, she might well be distant kin of yours.” He turned as he spoke, and on his lips was a cool smile. There was something unkind to it. Joyain glanced across at Iareth.

  Calmly, she said, “If so, I know nothing of it. She is, as you say, the sister-in-law of Yviane Allandur. I believe I met her, when I was formerly in Merafi.”

  “Indeed?” Kenan turned back to his guests. He said, “Iareth is my expert upon matters Merafien.”

  “A pleasant expertise,” Quenfrida said. “Even for a Lunedithin.” She smiled at Iareth. “Do you find it so?”

  “In parts.” Iareth did not return the smile. “Was that your experience, when you came to Skarholm to study matters Lunedithin?”

  Kenan looked at her sharply.

  “Indeed,” Quenfrida said. “It’s a fine thing, Lunedithin hospitality.” She smiled at Kenan. “I have fond memories of my stay there. And of my hosts. Among others.”

  Amalie had not mentioned that one of the current Tarnaroqui embassy had formerly held a post in Lunedith. Perhaps she had not known. What Joyain found more interesting was that Kenan and Quenfrida had effected not to know one another. Not for the benefit of Sigeris, surely? The latter would certainly to know the backgrounds of his aides. In which case . . . Trying to unravel the puzzle, Joyain missed Kenan’s reply to Quenfrida, and Sigeris was relating some anecdote about a court masque.

  The conversation continued for some minutes longer upon desultory matters, before the Tarnaroqui rose and took their leave. Kenan dismissed Joyain and Iareth in their wake. In the hall, he rang the bell for the footman to take a new message to the stables and waited.

  After a moment, Iareth said, “Do you know this Tarnaroqui embassy?”

  It was an odd question. Joyain said, “Not personally.” She looked briefly surprised. Then she shook her head. “So: I’d forgotten. The guards of your queen are not as our kai-rethin.” That did not seem to need a reply. She said, “But you know of the embassy?”

  It appeared that rather a lot of people were interested in the Tarnaroqui. Somewhat stiffly, Joyain said, “A little, yes.”

  “Indeed.” Again, Iareth paused. “It is only that I wondered, somewhat, concerning this Quenfrida . . . She has been long in Merafi?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “No.” Her tone was absent. Glancing at her, he could read little from her face. Unexpectedly, she looked up and smiled. “Once again, I’m inconveniencing you.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  He did not understand the look she gave him, half-measuring, half, perhaps, regretful. But she said only, “Thank you,” and went away down the passage.

  Although it was still early autumn, cold shrouded the city. Two chill nights followed two gray days, rain churned the streets to mud, and the river swelled within its banks. A full quarter of the wharves were unusable, not counting those in the disrupted and uneasy new dock. Some of the wells in the low city were beginning to taste salty. The pleasure gardens were waterlogged, and shop awnings hung limp and dulled.

  It was a poor season for pleasure, and poorer for those who must live by those means, as the rich withdrew into the warmth of their private houses. In coffeehouses and inns, the landlords muttered; at the Gran’ Théâtre, the manager sighed over his receipts. Everywhere, in the mansions of the nobility and the countinghouses of merchants, in guildhalls and temples, in garrets and tenements and shanty-huts, people discussed their queen’s health in hushed tones. She had hemorrhaged in full view of the court. It mattered little that the day after she had walked in her gardens with her son and
visited the main fire temple with her consort: there was still talk of ill omens. Some of the foreign merchants raised their prices, while native traders looked grim. The number of petitioners outside the houses of certain councillors increased. It was said Yvelliane d’Illandre, who would surely know more than any other how serious matters were, had not left her offices at the Rose Palace since the night of the reception for Prince Kenan.

  The night of the reception, Gracielis had awoken chill and disturbed from fitful sleep. Ever since, it seemed to him that a mood drifted over the city, invisible, cold, malevolent. Two days after that evening, he walked one of the paths alongside the northern arm of the river. It was not raining, but he shivered despite his heavy cloak and fur-lined two-colored gloves. Something waited. Something he did not wish to feel. To one side, the lieutenant’s ghost paced him, hazy with moisture. To the other, Amalie walked, holding his arm.

  He could not imagine why she wanted to promenade here, in this weather. In any weather, for that matter. But it was not for him to question her. There were rules to this, as to any job. Besides, it pleased him to please her. And then, he had to eat.

  She said, “You’re very quiet.”

  “Your beauty silences me.” She snorted. He said, “I’ll talk, then, if it pleases you.”

  “You know it does. You practice.” She squeezed his arm. “Everything about you pleases me, love.”

  “I’m glad. It’s my greatest fear, that I’ll cease to please you.”

  She laughed. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you.” The ghost sneered at him. He ignored it. “And are you pleased by this scenery?”

  “Do you have that in your power as well?” She shook her head at him. “I don’t deserve your talents.”

  “Not so. My talents are inadequate.” He smiled. “Is there something you’d have me change?”

  “I wish!”

  The river was high, heavy with mud and debris. The towpaths were all but deserted, and they had seen only one barge. The day was very still. He was again aware of a quality of waiting, caught in the air.

  Amalie said, “I wanted to look at the river, but . . .”

  “I was in the old town last night. The south channel is very high. I believe ships can still pass, though.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No, but I can ask.”

  “Thank you.” But she sighed.

  Gracielis looked at her. “Has your ship arrived?”

  “Not yet.” She sighed again. Gently, he lifted her hand to his lips.

  He said, “It will be well.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. And I can sustain the loss, if necessary. But with this news of the queen in addition . . . My trading partners in the Allied Cities won’t like it. They’re sure to want to charge me more and pay less for my goods. My guild is unhappy.”

  “They say that she appeared quite well at the temple.”

  “Yes, I know. But all the same . . .”

  She was worrying, it was clear. Stopping, he placed his hands on her shoulders and looked down into her eyes. Carefully, kindly, he said, “Ladyheart. Do not.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Frown.” He circled her face with a finger. “It makes wrinkles.”

  “That would be a calamity.”

  “Assuredly.” Over her shoulder, he could see the river, hazy beyond the lieutenant’s ghost. It looked as if a mist might be rising. He asked, “Are you cold?”

  “Not especially. Are you?”

  “A little. Your Merafien climate . . .”

  “No resilience.” But she slipped her arms around him and rested her cheek on his shoulder. He began to wrap his cloak about them both, then paused as the ghost moved, improving his view of the river. That moved brown and slow, blurred with the mist, which was beginning to seep into the streets and alleys and gardens. There were shapes in the mist, and beneath the surface of the river, moving against the current, adopting forms they should not take. They uncoiled with lazy confidence, less substantial than the lieutenant’s malicious ghost. Under them Gracielis could sense something more, a heavy immanence of water, falling in thunder and spray.

  He inhaled sharply. Amalie stared up at him in consternation. “What is it, love?”

  She was blind to it, he could tell. Blind as Thiercelin had not been . . . Gracielis controlled his breathing and found a smile for her. “Nothing, Ladyheart. Only the cold.”

  “I knew it. Let’s go back.”

  He wanted nothing more. He drew her against him, and her arm slid around him again as they began to retrace their steps. After a while, she said, “You’re too thin, you know.”

  “That’s my nature.” The lieutenant’s ghost glowered at him. Rain was starting to fall. Gracielis pulled his cloak more securely closed.

  He did not look back to where the river bore its cargo of restless changes to breathe across the waiting city.

  The same day, Thiercelin presented himself at the Lunedithin residence. It had proved harder than he had anticipated to bring himself to this point. Some part of him shivered from the idea of Yvelliane learning he had had dealings of any kind with Iareth Yscoithi. She had enough troubles. After Firomelle had been taken ill, he had hovered near Yvelliane’s offices in the Rose Palace for most of the night, in case she should want him. She had not: Around daybreak, one of her secretaries had come to order him home. Yvelliane herself remained behind and had not responded to his messages. Nor had he been able to see her. He had waited at home until Miraude accused him of moping. He was, and it helped no one. If he saw Iareth, perhaps he might learn something that could be of help to Yvelliane, if he did it properly. He was not sure he could. He was very nervous. When the door was opened by a liveried footman, he drew himself up to his full height and endeavored to look forbidding.

  The man bowed, and said, “Good day, monseigneur.”

  Thiercelin said, “I’m here to see mademoiselle Iareth Yscoithi.”

  “Very good, monseigneur. Please come in.” He ushered Thiercelin into a well-appointed chamber off the hall. “What name am I to announce?”

  “I’m an old friend . . ,” Thiercelin began. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to receive me.”

  “Of course, monseigneur. However . . .” The footman hesitated. “Perhaps you have an appointment?”

  Thiercelin had never been a very good liar. Looking at his feet, he said, “The fact is, I . . . Not precisely, no.”

  “I see.” The footman seemed to be making a mental assessment of him. “I will make inquiries.”

  “Thank you.”

  It took less time than he had expected. After about five minutes, the door opened. Thiercelin looked up, hoping to see Iareth.

  It was a young officer in the uniform of the Queen’s Own Cavalry. He bowed to Thiercelin and shut the door. “Good day, monseigneur. I’m the liaison officer for the heir’s party. Perhaps I can assist you?”

  “I hope so,” Thiercelin said cordially. “I’d like to see Iareth Yscoithi.”

  “Yes, monseigneur, so the footman tells me.” The officer had curiously deep-set eyes, lending a serious cast to his countenance. “However, there seems to be a problem with identification.” Thiercelin was silent. “I’m sure, monseigneur, that you can appreciate that it isn’t good policy to admit unknown persons.”

  “It does seem reasonable,” Thiercelin admitted. He was beginning to wish he had never tried this. He should have sent a note. “But my situation’s rather delicate. I’d rather not have to give my name.”

  “In that case, monseigneur, I regret that you won’t be able to obtain an appointment.”

  “Evidently,” Thiercelin said. And then, “Drown it!” The officer was perfectly pleasant, but he might as well have been a stone wall. Thiercelin sighed. “I don’t suppose you could see your way to . . .” The officer made no response. Uncomfortably, Thiercelin continued, “I’m not without resources.”

  “I’m happy for you.”

  Thiercelin looked at
his feet. Bribery went right against his grain. He said, “Perhaps we could come to some arrangement?”

  The officer’s eyes narrowed. “I doubt it.”

  “What I meant was . . .”

  “I know what you meant,” the officer said. “Attempting to bribe one of Her Majesty’s officers is an offense, monseigneur. I suggest you leave.”

  “I need to see Iareth,” Thiercelin said, aware that he had succeeded only in giving offense. “My business is quite important.”

  “As are my duties,” said the officer. “Good day to you . . . monseigneur.” The pause was just long enough to be insulting. Valdarrien would have challenged him for that.

  Thiercelin was not Valdarrien. Controlling his irritation with himself and the situation, he said, “I’d be very grateful . . .”

  “I do not,” said the officer, “take bribes.” He glared at Thiercelin. “So why don’t you just leave?”

  Thiercelin’s irritation peaked. He said, “Are you dismissing me?”

  “Yes,” said the officer, and turned his back.

  “As a gentleman . . .” Thiercelin began.

  “I wasn’t aware that I was dealing with one.”

  Thiercelin forgot himself. He stood up straight, “Enough, monsieur. I am Thiercelin duLaurier of Sannazar and the Far Blays, and I need to see Iareth Yscoithi.”

  “Really?” The officer looked around.

  “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “Let’s say I find it rather odd that the First Councillor’s husband would come here and refuse to identify himself.”

  “I just did,” said Thiercelin, stung. The officer said nothing. “And I’ll be quite happy to prove it to you. Shall we say the Winter Gardens?”

  “Very good. When?”

  “Your discretion. I’ll expect your second at the Far Blays townhouse.”